Nemesis

by S. D. Perry

Chapter Eight

 

  AS HE SLOGGED HIS WAY THROUGH THE sewer system underneath the city streets, Nicholai found himself fascinated by the careful planning that had gone into Raccoon's design. He'd studied the maps, of course, but it was another thing entirely to ac-tually wander through it, to experience the arrangement firsthand. Umbrella had built a perfect playground; how unfortunate that they'd ruined it for themselves. There were several underground passages that con-nected key Umbrella-owned facilities to one another, some more obvious than others. From the basement of the RPD building, he'd entered the sewers that would lead him all the way to the multilevel underground lab-oratory where Umbrella had done its most serious re-search. Research had also been conducted at the Arklay/Spencer mansion lab in Raccoon Forest, and there were three "abandoned" factory or warehouse test sites on the outskirts of town, but the best scientists had worked in and under the city. It would certainly make his job much easier; moving from one area to another would be much less hazardous underground.

  Not for much longer, though. In another ten or twelve hours, nowhere will be safe. The bio-organics that Umbrella worked with were kept sedated, grown in Raccoon but usually shipped elsewhere for field trials. With the operation in virtual ruin, they'd break out in order to find food; some had surely escaped already, and the majority would undoubtedly make an appear-ance once they'd missed a few injections.

  And won't that be fun? A little target practice to clear my palate in between searches, and with the fire-power to enjoy it.

  Holding the assault rifle in the crook of his right arm, he reached down and patted the extra mags he'd taken from Wersbowski; he hadn't thought to check them before, but the quick look before he'd descended into the sewers had left him quite pleased. U. B. C. S. soldiers were issued magazines of fully jacketed. 223s, designed to shoot cleanly through a target; Wersbowski had loaded up with hollow points, rounds that ex-panded and flattened on contact for maximum damage. Nicholai had already planned to raid the lab's small ar-senal; with an additional sixty rounds of HP, he'd be walking easy. . . . . . unlike now. . . The cold, murky water that ran through the poorly lit tunnels came almost to his knees and smelled terrible, like urine and mold. He'd already come across several undead, most wearing Umbrella lab coats, though there were a few civilians - maintenance people, or perhaps just unlucky souls who'd ventured into the sewers thinking to escape the city. He dodged them, mostly, not wanting to waste bullets or alert anyone to his whereabouts. He came to a T junction and hung a right after check-ing for movement in either direction. As with much of his journey so far, there was nothing but the soft lap of pol-luted water against gray stones, the ripple of sullen yellow light against the oily surface. It was a dank and miserable environment, and Nicholai couldn't help but think of the A334s, the sliding worms. At the Watchdog briefing, they'd been listed as something like giant leeches that traveled by water in groups, one of Umbrella's newest creations. He wasn't afraid so much as disgusted by the thought of running into them, and he hated surprises, hated the idea that even now a school of them could be slipping through the dark waters, jaws stretching wide, seeking warmth and sustenance from human blood. When he saw the raised ledge at the end of the tun-nel, he was ashamed at the relief he felt. He quickly blocked the feeling, preparing himself for his meeting; a look at his watch as he stepped out of the water told him he was right on time. Dr. Thomlinson would be fil-ing her next report within ten, minutes. Nicholai hurried down the short corridor in front of him, annoyed by the faint squelching of his boots as he reached the door to the warehouse anteroom. He lis-tened for a moment and heard nothing; he gave a soft push at the door and it opened, revealing an empty break room for city workers - table, a few chairs, lock-ers - and, bolted to the far wall, a descending ladder. He crept in, gently closing the door behind him. The ladder went down into the small warehouse from which Dr. Thomlinson would report; a computer terminal was hidden behind some cleaning equipment on one of the shelves. Assuming Thomlinson would be coming from the lab, she'd enter via the small elevator platform in the comer of the room, if he'd read the map correctly. Nicholai sat down to wait, unhooking his shoulder bag and removing the laptop; he wanted to recheck his maps after the appointment with the good doctor. Thomlinson was punctual, arriving a full four min-utes before she was supposed to file. At the sound of the grinding lift motor, Nicholai trained the rifle's muz-zle into the corner, resting his finger on the trigger. A tall, disheveled woman rose into view, a distracted look on her smudged face. She wore a stained lab coat and carried a handgun she kept pointed at the floor; obvi-ously, she expected her checkpoint to be safe. Nicholai didn't give her a chance to react to his pres-ence. "Drop your weapon and step away from the lift. Now. " She was a cool one, he had to give her that. Except for a slight widening of her eyes, there was no visible sign of alarm across her even features. She did as he asked, the clatter of the semiautomatic loud as she war-ily moved a few paces into the still room.

  "Anything new to report, Janice?"

  She studied him, her light brown gaze searching his as she crossed her arms. "You're one of the Watch-dogs," she said. It wasn't a question. Nicholai nodded. "Empty your pockets onto the table, Doctor. Slowly. " Thomlinson smiled. "And if I won't?" Her voice was throaty, deep and alluring. "Will you. . . take it from me?"

  Nicholai thought for a few seconds about what she was suggesting then pulled the trigger, obliterating her lovely smile in a sudden cough of fire. Really, he didn't have time to play that particular game; he should have shot her on sight, so as not to be tempted.

  Besides, his feet were cold and wet, which he de-tested; nothing like wet boots to make a man miser-able. Still, it was a shame; she was his type, tall and curved, obviously intelligent. He walked to her slumped body and fished a disk out of her breast pocket without looking at the blood and bone confusion that had been her face, reminding himself that this was business. Only four to go. Nicholai slipped the disk into a plastic pouch, sealed it, and placed it in his bag. There'd be time to pore over its contents, later, once he'd collected everything. He turned on the portable and called up the sewer system map, frowning as he traced his next path. At least another half mile of wading through the dark be-fore making it topside. He glanced at Dr. Thomlinson again and sighed; perhaps he'd made a mistake. A quick tussle would have warmed him up. . . though he disliked having to kill women after enjoying them, on any level; the last time, he'd experienced feelings of true regret. No matter. She was dead, he had the information, and it was time to move on. Four left, and he could for-get about business for the rest of his extremely wealthy life, concentrating instead on the kinds of pleasure that poor men could only dream about.

  Carlos knew he was close. From the area near the newspaper building, where the street signs had all begun with north, he'd ended up lost in a series of al-leys to the east - what had to be Trent's shopping dis-trict.

  He said shopping district, northeast. . . so where's the theater? And he said something about a fountain, didn't he?

  Carlos stood in front of a boarded-up barbershop at the intersection of two alleys, no longer sure which way to go. There weren't any street signs, and twilight had given its last gasp; it was full-on dark and he only had ten minutes left before the 1900 deadline, thanks to an initial blunder that had led him back toward the industrial part of town -not really what could be con-sidered the city proper, as Trent put it. Ten min-utes. . . and then what? Once he found the infamous Grill 13, what was supposed to happen? Trent had said something about helping. . . so if he blew the ap-pointed time, would Trent be able to do anything for him?

  Taking a left would lead him back to the newspaper office, he thought - or was that behind him? Straight ahead was a dead end and a door that he hadn't tried yet, might as well give that a shot. . . He didn't see it coming, but he heard it. He'd taken a single step when a door crashed open behind him - and the thing was so fast that he was still turning, raising the assault rifle
in reaction to the sound of the door when it reached him.

  What. . .

  A wave of malodorous darkness, an impression of shining black claws and hard, ribbed body like the exoskeleton of some giant insect. . . . . . and something ripped the air inches from his face, would have hit him if not for his stumbling step back-wards. He tripped over his own feet and fell, watching in horrified amazement as some thing flew over his upturned face, leaping nimbly to the wall on his right, and contin-ued to run, sideways, clinging to the brick in a skittering gallop. Awestruck, Carlos tracked it as far as he could turn his head, flat on his back, watching as it agilely pivoted on at least three of its legs and dropped to the ground. He might have simply waited for it to come for him, unable to believe his eyes even as it slashed one of its six, long-bladed legs across his throat, except that it screamed - and the trumpeting, triumphant whine that erupted from its inhumanly curved and bloated face was enough to get him moving. In a flash, Carlos rolled into a crouch and opened fire on the screeching, running thing, unaware that he was screaming, too, a low, raspy cry of terror and dis-belief. The creature faltered as the rounds tore into its brittle flesh, its limbs flailing wildly, the quality of its shriek changing to a howl of furious pain. Carlos kept firing, spraying the creature with deadly hot metal, con-tinuing even after it collapsed and was only moving be-cause of him, the rounds jerking at its limp form. He knew it was dead but couldn't let himself stop, couldn't until the M16 ran dry and the alley was silent except for the sound of his own tortured breathing. He backed against a wall, slammed a fresh mag into the rifle, and desperately tried to understand what the hell had just happened. At last he recovered enough of himself to ap-proach the dead thing - it was dead; even a six-legged, wall-climbing bug the size of a man was dead when its brains were drooling out of its skull. It was one truth he could hold on to in the face of this madness. "Deader than shit," he said, staring down at the twisted, bloody creature, and for just a second, he could feel part of his mind attempting to turn in on itself, to lock him away from what he was seeing. Zombies were bad enough, and he'd finally refused to accept the fact that Raccoon was overrun by the walking dead; they were just sick, that cannibal disease he'd read about, because there was no such thing as zombies except in the movies. Just like there were no real monsters, ei-ther, no giant killing bugs with claws that could walk on walls and scream like it had screamed. . . "Wo hay piri," he whispered, his one-time motto, this time spoken as a plea, his thoughts following in a kind of desperate litany, Don't sweat it, hang loose, be cool. And after a while, it took hold; his heart slowed to almost normal, and he started to feel like a person again, not some mindless, panicking animal. So, there were monsters in Raccoon City. It shouldn't be a surprise, not after the day he'd had; besides, they died like anything else, didn't they? He wasn't going to survive if he lost it, and he'd already been through way too much to give up now. With that, Carlos turned his back on the monster and headed down the alley, forcing himself not to look back. It was dead, and he was alive, and chances were good that there were more of them out there.

  Trent might be my only way out, and now I've got. . . shit! Three minutes, he had three goddamn min-utes. Carlos broke into a run, up a few steps to the single door at the end of the alley and through - and found himself standing in a spacious, well-lit kitchen. A restaurant's kitchen. A quick look around; no one, and quiet except for a soft hiss from a large gas canister standing against the back wall. He took a deep breath but couldn't smell anything; maybe it was something else -

  - and I wouldn't leave if it was toxic nerve gas. This has to be it, this is where he told me to go.

  He walked through the kitchen, past shining metal counters and stoves, heading toward the dining area. There was a menu on one of the counters, GRILL 13 written across the front in gold script. It was unnerving, how relieved he felt; within a few hours, Trent had gone from being some creepy stranger to his best friend in the world.

  I made it, and he said he could help - maybe a res-cue team is already on its way, or he arranged for me to be picked up here. . . or maybe there are weapons stored in the front, not as good as an evac but I'll take what I can get.

  There was an opening in the wall between the kitchen and the dining room, a counter where the chefs put the orders up. Carlos could see that the small, slightly darker restaurant was empty, although he took a moment to be certain; dancing light from a still-burn-ing oil lamp wavered over the leatherette booths that lined the walls, casting jittery shadows. He stepped around the serving counter and walked into the room, absently noting a faint scent of fried food lingering in the cool air as he stared around, searching. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he def-initely didn't see it - no unmarked envelope propped up on a table, no mysterious packages, no trench-coated man waiting. There was a pay phone by the front door; Carlos walked over and picked up the re-ceiver but got nothing, just like every other phone in town. He checked his watch for what felt like the thou-sandth time in the past hour and saw that it was 1901, one minute after seven o'clock and he felt a rush of anger, of frustration that only served to increase his un-acknowledged fear. I'm alone, no one knows I'm here and no one can help me. "I'm here," he said, turning to face the empty room, his voice rising. "I made it, I'm here on time and god-damnit, where the hell are you?"

  As if on cue, the telephone rang, the shrill sound making him jump, Carlos fumbled for it, his heart thumping dully in his chest, his knees suddenly weak with hope.

  "Trent? Is that you?"

  A brief pause, and Trent's smooth, musical voice spilled into his ear. "Hola, Mr. Oliveira! I'm so pleased to hear your voice!" "Man, not half as glad as I am to hear yours. " Carlos sagged against the wall, gripping the receiver tightly.

  "This is some bad shit, amigo, everyone's dead and there are things out there, like - there are monsters, Trent. Can you get me out of here? Tell me you can get me out of here!"

  There was another pause, and Trent sighed, a heavy sound. Carlos closed his eyes, already knowing what he would say.

  "I'm very sorry, but that's simply out of the question. What I can do is give you information. . . but surviv-ing, that's your job. And I'm afraid that things are going to get worse, much worse before they get any better. "

  Carlos took a deep breath and nodded to himself,knowing that this was what he'd been expecting allalong. He was on his own. "Okay," he said and opened his eyes, straighteninghis shoulders as he nodded again. "Tell me. "